A Shell Of My Self
by letmefallasleep
Summary: Dean was kidnapped, stolen from his family when he was a young child. After escaping his captors, he has no idea how to contact his family, so he takes to the streets of L.A. Better than it sounds. Warnings: Sexual and physical abuse, drug use, etc.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Yes, I know I just got rid of two stories because I couldn't keep up with them all, but... Well, there is no excuse. I am just horribly mean and selfish like that. But y'all love me anyways, right?

... Right?

Anyways, disclaimer: I own nothing. Duh.

Warnings: Underage prostitution, rape, language, drug use, underage drinking, etc, and so on.

If you like, please review. That way, I'll at least feel guilty when it takes me a week to update... : ' (

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><p>Why me?<p>

I've asked myself that question a million times since I was six years old. Never really got a satisfying answer.

God's will? Hard to believe in a god that cruel. Fate? It was gonna happen to somebody, might as well be me? Find that hard to believe too, after all the people my family has saved. Things just happen?

Well… I think that's just a piss poor excuse for laying back and taking what life throws at you.

My name's Dean. Dean Winchester. I've been on my own for five years now. I was kidnapped almost four years before that.

I don't know what happened to my father and little brother. But I've come to accept the fact that I'll never see my dad again, and the idea that my little brother is more than likely dead.

Mel and Tom –the two men who kidnapped and later sold me –broke into the motel room where Sammy and me were waiting for dad to get back from a hunt. He was supposed to be gone a week.

Mel and Tom grabbed me on day three. Even if dad had been home on time –which happened hardly ever –it still would have been way too late. Sammy would have starved to death long before then.

But I try not to think about it too much. Life's depressing enough out here; spend too much time thinking about your family or shit like that, and you'll put a bullet in your head quicker than someone will rob your corpse.

By 'out here' I mean Los Angeles. 'City Of Angels'. What a laugh. I've met a lot of people out here, and ain't none of 'em been angels.

I spend my nights as a whore; spend my days sleeping in cardboard boxes, or scrounging in dumpsters for somewhat edible food. 'Somewhat edible' means 'only partially covered in mold'.

That's been my life for the past five years. Fucking and sucking complete strangers for next to nothing, while starving and trying not to freeze to death in the fucked up L.A. weather.

After I was kidnapped, Mel and Tom spent two weeks beating and molesting me to 'get me ready'. For what, I couldn't figure out; at the time, I couldn't even begin to imagine how it could get any worse. Two guys beating the shit out of me, just for the hell of it? Feeling me up, making me suck 'em off? How the fuck could it get any worse than that, right?

I found out, yeah, it could get a hell of a lot worse. Two weeks into my captivity, I was sold to a man I would only ever know as 'Sir'.

No matter how hard I try… No matter how drunk, stoned, or high I get… I'll never be able to escape the memory of that first night with Sir. I thought I was going to die.

Hell, by the time it was over, I was hoping I would die.

I spent the next four years getting passed from whorehouse to whorehouse. Being fucked by random Johns, and the occasional Jane.

Four years of hell. Four years of being beaten, tortured, and raped, before I finally managed to escape.

After I escaped, I realized the major flaw in my plan: I had nowhere to go. My dad moved around from town to town, never letting the dust settle before he was putting the town in his rearview mirror.

I didn't have any other family.

So I took to the streets. Making fifteen dollars a blow job, and forty bucks selling my ass. Most of it goes to Jerome, to make sure I don't have any 'accidents' other than the occasional beating he gives me.

The little bit I have left over is usually enough to buy me a fast food meal for the night, and a cheap pack of cigarettes if I'm lucky. Occasionally, I'll be able to buy a dime bag of pot, or a line or two of coke.

And that was my life.

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><p>"That's it, boy. Take it deep. Oh yeah, baby!"<p>

Dean struggled to keep from gagging on the John's thick dick. Normally, he had good control over his gag reflex, but the John wasn't looking for a BJ. He'd just wanted a mouth to fuck.

Dean knew he'd be lucky if he didn't lose another tooth.

He would have liked to stop, tell the John to get lost, but it wasn't gonna happen. Right before he'd started getting rough, the John had pinned his hands to the wall.

He briefly considered biting the guy, but dismissed it; one tooth wasn't worth what the asshole would do to him, or how many customers would avoid him if word got out.

So he'd buck up and bear it. Like always.

It seemed like an eternity before the man shot his load halfway down his throat. It was probably closer to three or four minutes.

Dean coughed as he spit a bit of semen out. "That's… That's it," He said hoarsely. "It's another sixty if you want a fuck."

The man's hands tightened around Dean's wrists. "You said forty."

Dean coughed again as he spat, "Yeah, that was… was before you… tore my throat… all to hell."

"You said –"

"There a problem, Dean?"

Dean silently thanked whoever was listening as Shawn sauntered down the alley.

"Get outta here, boy, this ain't your business," The John snapped, still glaring down at Dean.

The tall, lanky teen leaned against the dumpster lazily, but his blue eyes flashed.

"Nah, see, it is my business. That happens to be my pimp buddy. You beat him up, our pimp gets mad, and that never ends well. So why don't you just get lost?"

Dean held his breath, waiting. He had no doubt that he and Shawn could take the guy, but it wouldn't end well for either of them. Cops would ask questions; of course they would side with the John. No bleeding hearts in real life; that shit only happened in the movies. So the boys would end up with a fine, or worse, some jail time. Either way, Jerome would beat the hell out of them.

"Just get outta here, man. Our pimp is on his way down. Let's all go our separate ways before shit gets outta hand."

The John hesitated for a second, before slowly releasing Dean's hands. But his sigh of relief quickly turned to a yelp of pain, as the man punched him in the face, before tearing out of the alley.

"Hey!" Shawn yelled at the man's retreating back. "Fuckin' perv!"

"Let it go, Shawn," Dean said tiredly, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. "Doesn't fuckin' matter."

Shawn sighed as he slid down the wall, and sat next to Dean, silently offering the shorter boy a cigarette.

"You okay?" Shawn asked after a few minutes.

Dean let out a short, harsh laugh. "Oh yeah, Shawn, I'm just fuckin' awesome," He said bitterly, still trying to keep the blood from gushing from his nose.

"Dean –"

"I don't wanna hear it, Shawn. It's not 'okay', things aren't 'fine', and nothing's ever gonna change. I just lost another tooth, pretty sure that asshole just broke my nose, and that's the third time this week that a Johns' got rough with me. Second time a John's skipped without paying.

"I'm… Ugh, I'm… I don't know how much longer I can do this."

Shawn scoffed. "Ain't like you got a whole helluva lot of options, Dean. We both know you ain't gonna off yourself. You ain't the type."

Dean gave the blond a grim smile. "Yeah… But it's a nice thought."

Shawn chuckled darkly as he flicked his cigarette. "Yeah. Yeah, it is. Hey, you mind if I ask you a question?"

"You just saved my ass, I think that entitles you to at least one question."

"You got anybody who's gonna miss you when you bite the big one?"

Dean was quiet for a few minutes, as he took a few deep drags from his cigarette, before finally answering.

"My dad already thinks I'm dead. Thinks I died nine years ago."

"Shit. Would have made you what? Five or six? How the hell did that happen?"

Dean gave Shawn a sideways glance. "You've known me for a year, Shawn; why all the sudden curiosity?"

" 'Cause we ain't gonna make it, Dean. Whether a John gets to rough and goes to far, or some other down-on-their-luck kid stabs me over a slice of rotting pizza, we're gonna die. Don't know about you, but ain't nobody gonna notice or care when I'm gone. My old man might crack a beer in memory of the best fuck he's ever had… If anybody could even find him to tell him."

Dean sighed, grinding his cigarette out as he stood, staring down the alley, his green eyes dark.

"Two guys kidnapped me from the hotel room that my dad, my little brother and me were staying in. Dad was gone for a few days… They told me later that they'd been watchin' us, waitin' for him to leave. They…"

Dean paused, choking on the words, as he bit his lip, shifting from foot to foot before continuing.

"They sold me. Found an underground whorehouse that catered to pedophiles. Passed me around for four years, before I managed to get free. Didn't know where to find my dad…. So I ended up out here."

He glanced down at Shawn, as he wiped his nose with his sleeve, not caring about the blood trail it left on his only shirt. He couldn't meet the other boy's eyes, so he looked away.

"I gotta get back."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Yeah, sorry this is such a short chapter, but it was a good ending spot... Thank you to the people who reviewed, and special thanks to Souless666 for being my first reviewer. :D

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><p>Singer's Automotive, Tennessee<p>

"John?"

John Winchester startled, almost dropping the pictures he was holding. "Yeah, Bobby?" He called back, regaining his composure quickly.

Robert Singer –Uncle Bobby, as Sammy called him –frowned as he entered into the living room. "Jesus, John… Why do you keep doin' this to yourself?" The older man asked, sitting next to John on the couch.

John couldn't hide the tears in his eyes as he gently laid the pictures back in the box that sat on the coffee table, next to the worn, dusty baby blanket, and the teddy bear with the ripped nose.

"I… I miss him, Bobby," He said quietly, running his hand lightly over the only memories he had left of his oldest son.

"I know that, John but… John, it's been nine years. You gotta move on. This ain't healthy; for you, or Sam. You keep tryin' to turn him into Dean, but it ain't ever gonna happen, Winchester. Dean is gone. And Sammy will never be Dean. All the wishing in the world ain't gonna bring him back," Bobby said, a few tears in his own eyes.

Damn, but Bobby had loved that boy. Dean had been so full of life, so ready to live. He ghosted his hand over the teddy bear, smiling sadly as he remembered the Christmas Dean had received the toy. Damn boy had been underfoot all afternoon, trying to help John wrap presents for two year-old Sammy, while trying to help Bobby cook dinner at the same time.

To have him ripped away like that had torn a hole in both men's hearts.

"I… I never even gave him a proper funeral, Bobby," John sobbed, head in his hands. "Never even found his body. I… I tried, Bobby, I tried so hard…"

"I know you did, Winchester," Bobby said softly. "You did the best you could."

And he had. John had called Bobby just a few hours before he got back to the apartment, excited as a kid at Christmas, telling his mentor how he had finished the job early, and if he pushed it, he'd be home in time for Sam's birthday. Even had the extra money to take the two boys to Chucky mouse-its whatever.

Three hours later came the heart-wrenching call. John had walked into the small apartment to find the place ransacked, and little Sammy crying pitifully in the closet. John had even called the police, but nothing had ever come from it. It was as if Dean had just vanished off the face of the earth. The two men had alternated shifts, one staying behind to watch Sam, while the other ran down clues and leads that always lead to nowhere, posting fliers everywhere…

All to no avail.

Eventually, the police informed John and Bobby that they had given up the missing person's case; they had started looking for a body.

Bobby would never forget those cold nights, searching swamps, ditches on the side of the road, forests, fields… Searching for the body of the small boy with the twinkling green eyes.

After six months, Bobby had taken Sam, and returned to Tennessee. John showed up on his doorstep seven months later, a broken, defeated man.

Now, John only took the occasional hunting job, and never more than a hundred miles away. He was uncomfortable being away from Sammy for more than a day, even though Bobby was the best damn baby sitter anybody could hope for.

"Maybe… Maybe you should take a trip, John," Bobby said slowly. "Get away for a while. I know you don't like to be away from Sammy, but… You gotta get outta here. Sittin' here, starin' at all these pictures… It's gonna kill ya. Hell, I even got a job for ya. Ellen called, thinks there's a werewolf runnin' around Salem, Oregon. Got all the signs of a good case."

John stared at the pictures for a few more moments, before gently putting the top back on the box.

"Maybe you're right, Singer," He said quietly. "Hell, I could even take Sammy with me, right? We could all go. 'Bout time I took the boy on a real hunt."

Bobby instantly liked the idea. "Yeah. He's gotten to be a pretty damn good shot. Had a helluva teacher, but the boy is good; gotta lot of natural talent."

John smiled sadly as he picked up the box, and returned it to its spot under the coffee table. "Just like his brother did."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Damn, three chapters in five days! I IS AWESOME! :D

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><p>Dean coughed, blood still coming up from his torn throat, as he lay huddled inside his jacket.<p>

It must have been close to four or five o'clock. Customers had stopped showing up about an hour ago, and most of the boys had already packed it up for the night. A few stragglers still remained –like Dean –unable to give up just yet.

Most of them probably still had quotas to meet; Tuesdays were always the slowest days, and more than one boy returned on Wednesday with new bruises from angry pimps.

Dean had met his quota; granted, it had been tough with the John who had skipped out, but Dean had a group of regular customers who usually paid well, and occasionally tossed him some extra cash. At this point, he was hoping to get one more customer, so he could actually get a decent meal tomorrow night, and a pack of real smokes, instead of the stupid Pall Malls he usually smoked.

As it stood, he had twenty-five bucks left over, after he paid Jerome his hundred base, and half of everything he made after that, plus fifty a night to stay at Jerome's apartment during the day, and fifty for the hotel room Dean used with the Johns who wanted more than a quickie suck-and-fuck in the alley, or their backseat.

He sighed as a black Escalade pulled up in front of him, and the window rolled down. He knew who it was –Darryl was a long-time regular –but he was the last John that Dean wanted to deal with. The only reason he stood, and walked over to the vehicle was because the man usually gave him eighty bucks when it was over.

"What's up, Darryl? Don't usually see you on a Tuesday," Dean said, leaning through the window.

The large African-American smiled, bleached white teeth contrasting eerily with his dark skin. "Wife went to visit her folks for the week. So I figured I'd come on down and see what my favorite boy was doin'."

Dean shrugged. "Not much. You lookin' for some quality time to keep the loneliness at bay?" He asked, forcing a grin.

"You know it. Two hundred bucks, and I'll drop you off here at eight."

Dean whistled. "That's pretty steep, Darryl; what's the catch?"

Darryl smiled sheepishly, but Dean caught the gleam in the man's eye, as he said, "You come back to my place, and we play with my toys."

Dean shook his head, and took a step back from the vehicle. "You know the rules, man: the alley, my place or no place."

"Oh come on, Dean," Darryl cajoled. "You can even run up and tell Jerome where you gonna be. I'll even give you my business card to give him; you're not at his apartment by eight fifteen, he can come looking for ya. I'll even up it to two fifty."

Dean sighed, and grabbed the business card Darryl was holding. "Give me fifteen minutes," He said in resignation.

Darryl laughed with glee, like a kid at Christmas, as Dean headed into the small apartment building behind him.

"Jerome?" He called quietly, knocking lightly on the door.

"Dean? That you boy?" Came a voice from inside.

"Yeah, man, I gotta talk to you."

Dean heard the three dead bolts, and two chains being undone, and a moment later, Jerome opened the door. He had to keep from shuddering at the sight of the five-foot seven, two hundred and fifty pound, pasty white man in his underwear.

"This better be important, Dean; I was just gettin' ready for bed," Jerome said, a dangerous edge to his voice.

"It is. Darryl's downstairs, offered me two fifty if I go back to his place with him for three hours; gave me a business card with his address to give you, said if I ain't back by eight fifteen, you can hunt him down."

Dean had learned early on not to lie to Jerome about how much he was making; the man seemed to know everything, and if he found out, he'd beat Dean senseless with the Billy-club he kept for just such a purpose.

Jerome smiled. "Two fifty, huh? That ain't bad. Your choice though, son; I know you don't like goin' home with 'em."

Dean couldn't help the shudder that coursed through him at the memory of the first –and last –time he'd went to a John's house. The guy had been a first-timer with Dean, and naively, Dean had agreed to go to his house for a hundred bucks.

After two and a half hours of agonizing, gut wrenching pain, Dean had passed out, only to regain consciousness behind a dumpster at the Seven-Eleven down the street.

He forced himself to shrug casually. "As long as you'll come and check on me if I ain't home on time, I guess it ain't a problem. That address close?"

Jerome glanced at the card, before nodding. "Yeah, ain't too far. 'Bout a ten minute drive. It's down on North Beach St."

Dean sighed. "Yeah, I guess I'll take it. You'll come check on me, right, Jerome?" He asked warily.

"Yeah, yeah, kid; don't wanna lose out on my biggest money-maker, right? I'll be there with a baseball bat if you ain't knocking on my door by eight o'clock. Promise."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Ok, so I know this is a really short chapter, and it's kind of choppy, but I've been suffering from horrible writer's block the past week, so I figured anything was better than nothing. Again, sorry for the long wait, and hope you enjoy the chapter.

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><p><strong>One Week Later<strong>

For the life of him, John couldn't remember what he had turned around and went back into the house for. Something important, he knew that much; the need to run back inside was almost overwhelming. Like something would go horribly wrong if he didn't return for… well, whatever it was he had forgotten.

The phone rang, almost immediately upon his entering the small cabin John, Bobby, and Sam had been sharing for the past four days.

He sighed irritably. All he wanted to do was get back home. But he had forwarded his cell-phone to the house phone –since the nearest cell tower was a good thirty miles away – and he didn't want to live with the guilt that would follow if he didn't answer the phone to whatever poor bastard needed help dealing with the supernatural.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Winchester?"

"Who's askin'?" John asked gruffly, not liking the man's voice. Sounded like some kind of educated idiot, who spent more on a car than John would to cloth Sammy for a lifetime.

"Dr. Balcom. Is this Jonathon Winchester?"

"Yeah, what's it to ya?"

"Mr. Winchester… we found your son."

John stood in stunned silence for a moment, before hoarsely saying, "Repeat that?"

"We found your son, Dean Winchester."

"Wh… When?"

"Four days ago. We just matched the fingerprints."

"I… I uh…" John sat down, heart breaking as he asked, "Where'd you find him?"

"We didn't; he was brought here by a friend of his, a Sha-"

"What? He's… He's alive?" John whispered.

"Oh my God, I'm sorry, so sorry. Yes, he's alive. I should have told you that, Mr. Winchester."

"Oh, God… Oh, God… Bobby!" John yelled outside. "Bobby, they found him! Dean's alive!" He turned his attention back to the phone as Bobby dropped all their gear, and bolted into the house.

"Where is he?"

"St. Anthony's Medical Hospital, in East L.A. But Mr. Winchester… His condition is critical right now. We need you here as soon as possible."

"I'm a hundred miles out of Salem, Oregon, right now, by a little town called Rice Hill," John said woodenly, trying to figure the time. "I… I'll leave right now, I should be able to get there in… twelve hours, or so…"

"I can call the police department up there, and see if I can get you an escort. When can you be ready?"

"I'm ready now. I can be in Rice Hill in half an hour."

"Alright, I'll see you soon, Mr. Winchester."

John slowly hung up the phone, before turning to Bobby.

"We gotta go," was all he said.

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><p><strong>Nine hours later<strong>

John flew into the hospital, Bobby and Sam close on his heels as he skidded to a stop in front of the reception area.

"I'm here to see my son, Dean Winchester," He said breathlessly.

The nurse nodded, and walked around the desk, motioning for him to follow. She stopped when she seen Sammy and Bobby.

"Sir, I think it'd be best if just you went with me for the moment," She said, glancing at Sammy, before returning her gaze to John.

John nodded impatiently. "Yeah, okay. Please, let me see my son."

"Right this way, sir."

"Is he alright?" John asked nervously as they walked down the hall.

The nurse shook her head. "He's in the ICU right now, Mr. Winchester. The doctor had to check on one of his other patients; he'll be here shortly. The other nurse is paging him right now."

"But he's gonna be alright, right?" John demanded.

The nurse hesitated. "I'd rather you wait for the doctor, Mr. Winchester. Don't worry; Dr. Balcom's one of the best doctors in L.A."

She stopped in front of a glassed off room. Painted on the glass in big, red letters were the words 'NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT DOCTOR APPROVAL'.

John plastered his face against the glass, desperate for his first look at his son.

It was horrible.

He couldn't even tell it was Dean; he'd changed so much. He'd filled out some, grown taller… his face was fuller, and his hair was shaved at random intervals on his head, where John could see stitches. Stitches that littered his head, his face, his arms, his neck… Casts on both arms, and one leg…

"Oh my God," He whispered. "What happened?"


	5. NOTICE

Hey, everyone… bad news. Life has been hectic lately, and with my son's birthday, my birthday, my husband's birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas all coming up, not gonna any less hectic any time too soon. Plus, I've had some serious writer's block lately anyways… I've tried writing, but everything just comes out crappy, and stiff.

So. After much consideration, and thought, I've decided to take a hiatus. No less than two months, no more than four. I'm sorry to all of my readers and reviewers, and I didn't come to this decision easily. I've struggled with it for quite a while, while at the same time attempting to write, and I've decided that you guys deserve my best, not some crappy, sloppily written, stiff sounding piece of junk I threw up.

I apologize again, but I'm going to make an attempt to write, and finish at least a few stories in that time frame. Hopefully erasing the pressure to post will ease up on the writer's block, and I'll be back to my eerily depressing, torture/angst goodness soon.

I understand if many of you quit reading my stories, or decide not wait for me to come back. I completely understand that, and in all honesty, I would probably do the same thing. But to those of you who decide to wait, I appreciate it, and I promise I won't disappoint any more than I already have.

Thank you,

letmefallasleep


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I'M BACK! YAY! But anyways, here's the next chapter. Couldn't even make it a full two months, I missed you guys too much lol. Hope you enjoy!

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><p><em>"Oh my God," He whispered. "What happened?"<em>

"It'd probably be best if you just waited for the doctor, Mr. Winchester," The nurse said sympathetically. "I just have one question before the doctor gets here. A boy about Dean's age brought him in. Said his first name is Shawn, about five foot nine, dirty blond hair. Sound familiar?"

John shook his head, eyes still focused on Dean. "No… Dean didn't have any friends when he disappeared. We moved a lot, so he never really got the chance…" Finally he glanced up. "You said this… This Shawn boy brought Dean in? Is he okay?"

Again, the nurse hesitated. "Well… He's not as bad off as Dean," She said unsurely.

John chuckled bitterly. "There's a lot of room between 'okay' and my son right now."

The nurse nodded. "I know, Mr. Winchester, but I can't divulge any information to someone who isn't Shawn's legal guardian. And until he tells us his last –" The nurse stopped short, as a short man wearing a lab coat came around the corner. "Oh, there's Dr. Balcom. I'll let you talk to him. Is there anything you'd like me to tell your family in the waiting room?"

John hesitated before answering. "Just… Just tell 'em that… That I'll be out soon."

The nurse nodded, and made her way down the hall, pausing to quietly talk to the doctor for a moment, before disappearing around the corner. The doctor had a small smile on his face as he approached.

"Mr. Winchester?"

"Yeah, that's me. Can someone finally tell me about my son now?"

Dr. Balcom nodded, and indicated for John to sit down in the chair across the hall from Dean's room.

"Mr. Winchester… I won't lie: right now your son is in critical condition. We only just got him stabilized two hours ago. His kidneys are failing, one of his lungs was severely damaged, both arms, and his leg, all broken in multiple areas, severe trauma to the face, and frontal temporal lobe, along with other penetrative head injuries, class III hemorrhage blood loss… Among… other things," The man said slowly, his voice sympathetic.

John could only stare dumbly. "What… what the hell… how?" He finally managed.

"He took a helluva beating, Mr. Winchester. Judging by the marks, and bruises, I would say someone beat him with a small baseball bat, or something of that size and shape. But… Mr. Winchester, there's really no good way to say this, and I apologize, but… Well, it looks like your son was… Well, whatever was used to administer the beating was also used to… to rape him, Mr. Winchester. Violently," Dr. Balcom said softly.

John's whole being froze for a moment, before he slumped in the chair.

"Mr. Winchester, I'm so sorry. But… Well, it looks like…" Balcom took a deep breath, before continuing. "It doesn't look like this was the first time. Judging from the uh… Well… I'd say Dean has probably been working as a prostitute for at least seven years."

John glared at the man. "What're you sayin', doc? That my six year old boy ran away from home to become a hooker?" He demanded angrily.

"No, no! That wasn't… I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester, I'm not used to… This is my first case dealing with a child like this…" He took another breath, and tried again. "No, all I'm trying to say is –whether willingly or not –Dean has been sodomized for at least the last seven years of his life, Mr. Winchester."

John shook his head. "Look… What about this, uh… Trauma to the face and frontal lobe?"

The doctor sighed. "Right now, we don't know. Dean is in a coma right now, Mr. Winchester. We can make assumptions, but unless Dean wakes up, I can't tell you the full extent of the damage."

"Try," John growled.

"Well… Um… There's a high probability of blindness in his left eye, due to a blowout fracture of the orbit, although the right eye –while swollen considerably –looks fine as near as we can tell. Dr. Kent, our resident maxillofacial surgeon, has already fixed the broken cheekbones, and jaw. The frontal lobe… well, there's severe swelling right now, so there's really no way of telling what the full extent of the damage will be. The side effects with frontal lobes vary, from increased or decreased creativity, speech, socialization, risk-taking, spontaneity… The penetrative head wounds are severe, but again, until the swelling goes down, or Dean wakes up, there's no way we can tell exactly what the damage will be."

"What's a worst case scenario?"

"A worst case scenario, Mr. Winchester, would be Dean never wakes up from his coma."

John could only stare dumbly at the doctor. "What do you mean?" He asked, knowing how stupid the question was –after all, how many interpretations can there be to _never wakes up_? –but somehow, his mind just couldn't wrap itself around the doctor's words.

"I mean, Mr. Winchester… Dean is in a coma. His brain is still functioning, but it's unresponsive. There's no telling how long this could last. It could be a few days, it could be a few weeks, or even… even a few years, Mr. Winchester. There's no telling with comas. And with the amount of brain damage Dean suffered… Well, I'm sorry, but… Even if Dean were to wake up right this second, we're talking about mental retardation, personality change, decreased motor skills… there are numerous things that could all go wrong."

John slumped down in the chair again. "I uh… I… Um…"

Dr. Balcom gave him a sympathetic look. "I'm not saying… There's still hope, Mr. Winchester. We've only just got him stabilized, and it's still early. We'll be able to tell more once the swelling goes down."

John nodded, choking the tears back. "What about the boy who bought Dean in? How, uh… how is he doing?"

"Well, he's conscious. He's down in room 317 if you want to go visit him. I can't really tell you any more than that, since you're not his legal guardian."

John waved absently as he stood. "Yeah, I know the drill. Is that on this floor?"

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><p>An Hour Later<p>

John had went back into the waiting room, to see both Bobby and Sam asleep. He'd quietly woken Bobby up, and given him a quicker, lighter version of Dean's injuries, and grabbed some coffee, before heading up to the third floor of the hospital.

He'd probably stood outside of room 317 for the better part of twenty minutes, trying to work up the gumption to walk in.

Finally, he took a deep breath, and walked inside.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Hiya folks, so here's the next chapter... Does it seem a little off to anybody else? Like... stilted? Let me know, please, before I go crazy... Well, crazier... Anyways, Shawn isn't going to be a major character in the story, but for right now, he's John's only life line to Dean, so he will be prominent in at least the next chapter, maybe two. : )

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><p><em>He'd probably stood outside of room 317 for the better part of twenty minutes, trying to work up the gumption to walk in.<em>

_Finally, he took a deep breath, and walked inside_.

The kid lying in the bed didn't look much older than Dean. Hell, didn't look much better off than Dean, to be honest. One of his legs in a cast up to his hip, and what looked like a shoulder cast on his left side. Kid looked like he had more stitches than skin, including a long gash down the side of his head, straight down to his jaw.

"Look, I told you, I ain't tellin' you my damn name," The kid said, clearly annoyed as he shot John a death glare.

"Uh, no… I'm uh… I'm John Winchester. Dean's father," John said slowly, standing at the foot of the bed awkwardly.

"Oh. Uh… Hi. I'm Shawn," The boy said unsurely. "Um… You can pull up a chair if you want."

John complied, pulling one of the hospital chairs closer to the bed, before sitting down.

"So you're Dean's dad, huh? Shorter than I expected," The kid said, glancing around, before lighting a cigarette.

"How uh… how long did you know my son?" John asked, his throat dry.

Shawn shrugged. "Dunno. 'Bout a year, maybe a year in a half. He saw me readin' Ender's Game on a slow night, and asked me about it. You ever read the book?" At John's slow head shake, Shawn grinned. "You should, man," He said with a cough. "It's a great book. That was the one Dean always wanted me to read to him."

John's face must have showed his thoughts, because Shawn hurriedly explained, "Not like you're thinkin', Mr. Winchester. We ain't like that. I actually got a girlfriend you know? Dean just can't read, so he always wanted me to read whatever I was reading to him."

"He… He can't read?"

Shawn gave him a funny look. "How the hell was he supposed to learn? Ain't like pimps are real big on us gettin' educated. The dumber we are, the better they like us. Really don't care for us if we get too smart. But I got a small stash of books from before I ended up out here. Managed to keep 'em safe for almost two years now," He said proudly. "I even brought 'em in with me. Got all Dean's favorites in there. Never would of forgiven me if I'd left 'em behind."

John smiled sadly as the boy pointed to a beat up old backpack with one strap missing, that lay on the wall next to the bed. What kind of life had this boy lead that left him with nothing more than a few books as possessions?

What kind of life had his son lead?

"Has he been on the streets this whole time?" John asked, the question suddenly desperately important. How much damage could that do to a child? He didn't want to think about it, but he had to know.

"Well, uh, I don't know what 'this whole time' is, but he told me about a week ago that he was kidnapped a long time ago. He managed to bust free a few years later, and ended up out here. I don't know too much about it," Shawn said with half a shrug. "Nobody really talks about why they ended up out here. We all got our reasons, and ain't none of 'em pretty. You learn quick not to ask."

John was silent for a few minutes, mind racing, before he finally asked the most important question.

"What the hell happened to you two?"

Shawn lay his head back against the pillow, and sighed. "We got too smart," He said softly, staring out the window, as the ashes from his cigarette fell onto sheet.

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><p>John had pumped the kid for information for about an hour, trying every which way to trick the boy into answering, but he'd refused to say any more about it.<p>

"Whaddya you mean he won't tell you?" Bobby hissed quietly, for the fourth time.

John sighed, composing himself as he sipped on a cup of coffee, glancing over to see Sammy still asleep in the chair.

"I told you what he told me, Singer: that it wasn't worth his life to tell me," John explained, for the fourth time. "And barring beatin' it outta him, the kid ain't gonna tell me anything."

"You tell him we'll make sure he's safe?"

John scoffed. "Oh yeah, right. How the hell we gonna do that? And even if we did figure out a way, I got a feelin' this kid ain't gonna trust us too much."

"I don't know how, Winchester, but at least one of us here has half a brain; should be able to figure somethin' out. And the hell you mean he ain't gonna trust us?"

John shrugged, taking another sip of coffee, trying to remove the mental image from his mind.

_"I ain't tellin' you, man. I know you're Dean's old man, but I won't live a week if I say somethin'. Dean would do the same thing to me," Shawn said, his eyes steely. "I ain't sayin' nothin'."_

_"Shawn, I just wanna know who hurt my son. Can you understand that?" John asked, more than a little gruffly._

_Instantly, John realized his mistake. Almost before the words were out of his mouth, Shawn actually seemed to shrink in on himself, his eyes wary, and all emotion chased away from his face._

_"Look, Mr. Winchester… I'm sorry but I can't help. I think you better go."_

_The boy struggled to roll over to his uninjured side, clearly done talking._

_John was done talking too. He couldn't make his mouth move, or even make his brain form coherent thoughts._

_As the skinny boy had rolled over, the hospital gown that tied in the back revealed long, thick looking scars that ran in every direction, before disappearing under the sides of the gown._

_Scars that looked a hell of a lot older than two years._

Pulling himself back to the present, John forced himself not to shudder, as he replied, "I just don't think this kid's had a lot of luck with the adults in his life."


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Ah ha! Sam will make his first real appearance in this chapter, so for all you Sam fans... You're welcome : ) Still not sure what's gonna be going on in the next few chapters, so you're gonna have to bear with me if the next chapter or two are filler type chapters. Thanks for reading, reviewing, or adding me to your lists. Means a lot to me.

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><p>Sam forced his face into the most pathetic, cutest face he could as he stared up at the nurse, his brown puppy dog eyes blinking slowly behind long lashes.<p>

"I just wanna thank the man who saved my brother," He said, putting a slight whimper into his voice.

As the nurse hesitated, clearly thinking, Sam was fuming. It was ridiculous that he had to act like a stupid five year old baby to see people in the hospital. He understood that he was smart for his age, but the rest of the kids his age couldn't be _that_ stupid, right?

"Well… I suppose it couldn't hurt. He's down in room 317. Just… I never saw you alright?" She asked with a big, dumb smile, pinching his cheek a little.

As soon as he had rounded the corner, Sam grimaced, scrubbing at his face, the smile disappearing instantly. This was the reason most children couldn't stand adults, in Sam's opinion. Just because they were young, didn't mean they were stupid.

Sometimes, even his own father forgot that. Uncle Bobby had gone to find them a place to stay, and John had fallen asleep on the couch, after telling Sam to stay put, and read his book. Like that was gonna happen.

As he walked down the hall, he remembered what his father had told him, and acted like he owned the place; like he had more right to be there than anyone else. The more you tried to hide what you were doing, the more people noticed.

So he didn't have any problems traipsing through the hallways until he found room 317. When he glanced through the glass before entering, he was shocked to see the teenager up and about, getting dressed.

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><p>"I don't think you're supposed to do that."<p>

The quiet, young voice nearly made Shawn jump out of his skin. His head spun around, and his eyes locked on the small brunette boy standing in the doorway.

"Hey, kid, I think you got the wrong room. So scram," He said, his voice rough as he continued to try and pull his socks on with one hand.

"I don't think so. I'm Sam. Sam Winchester. Dean's brother."

"Oh! Oh, right. Uh… Yeah… Um… Hi. I'm Shawn. Look, kid... Sam. I'd love to chat, but I gotta get lost, capiche? Tell your dad I'll find him at some point."

"Why?"

Shawn sighed as he grabbed his shirt. " 'Cause I wanna check in on Dean. I'm pretty good friends with him."

"No, I mean why do you have to leave?"

Shawn shook his head. "Doesn't matter," He growled as he tried to pull his shirt on over the cast.

"I know what you and my brother do."

Shawn paused, and the look he sent Sam was anything but friendly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The boy shrugged. "It's supposed to mean I know what you guys did. I heard my dad talking to Uncle Bobby about it. And I'm pretty damn smart for my age, so I think I know why you have to leave."

Shawn sat back, keeping his face blank, but his heart was racing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I heard the nurse's talking about how they'd ran your prints, and got a match. How they were gonna call your family. I watch a lot of TV, and read a lot of things. I know most kids who do what you do run from home because they'd rather get paid for what they do, rather than have it done by their family."

Shawn could feel his shoulders drop, as he scrubbed a hand over his face tiredly. "Jesus, kid, how old are you?"

"Eleven."

"Shit. And this is something you spent your time learning about?" Shawn asked sarcastically. "Or somethin' you got personal experience with?"

"My brother was kidnapped. Presumably dead. Who would take him? Pedophiles. So, yeah, I looked into it."

"Why?"

For the first time, Sam's impassive face showed his true age, and he took a deep breath before continuing. "My brother was kidnapped from our hotel room, and I was found hidden in the closet. I was two. Near as my dad can figure out, Dean heard someone breaking in, and barricaded the bedroom to buy some time. He put me in the closet with my pacifier, covered me up, and locked me in. I don't remember any of it, but dad had to bust down the closet door to get to me.

"He might have gotten both of us away. He definitely could have gotten away on his own. But he wasn't going to risk me by trying to run with me, and he wouldn't leave me behind. So I guess… I've always felt like I owed it to him, you know? To know what happened to him, what he went through, to keep me safe."

Shawn smiled a bit. "Yeah, that sounds like Dean. He's a good guy. Saved my ass more than once."

Sam came over, and leaned on the bed, staring Shawn in the eye. "Look, I think we can help you. My dad and my uncle, that is. You need to get outta here. And not just the hospital; since whoever beat up Dean, beat you up too, you're probably not safe in Los Angeles, period. What if we get you out? We got friends all over the country, people who would take you in. You can go back to school, and not have to worry about prostituting anymore."

Shawn stared at the kid suspiciously. "And just how would I pay these people back, huh?"

"You wouldn't. Or maybe by doing odd jobs. We're talking about good people; not the kind you deal with."

"And what would I have to do to get this great offer?"

Sam shrugged. "We'll do it anyways, since you helped my brother. Probably saved his life. Well… If he wakes up that is. But I want the name of the guy who hurt my brother. You tell my dad that, and we'll take you wherever you want, and you can do what you want. Stay with our friends, go on your own… Whatever."

Shawn sighed. "You sure your old man'll go for it?"

"Definitely."

"And you can get me outta here?"

Sam scoffed. "Are you kidding me? My dad's an escape artist. He can get anyone out of anything."

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><p>The older boy was silent for so long, Sam wasn't sure what he was thinking. But finally, he sighed again, shoulders drooped, resignation clear on his face.<p>

"I'll do it. But you gotta get me outta here now. My old man won't wait too long to come get me. I'll give it four hours, tops."

Sam nodded. "Ok. Then let me help you get your shirt on, then get the gown back on. Get in bed and lay there, like you're sleeping. I'll explain to my dad, and we can have you out of here in an hour. Maybe two at most."


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Alright guys, I'll admit it… I'm gonna cheat. I tried a hundred different ways to get Shawn out of the hospital… None of them sounded good. So… I'm skipping that part. I'm a horrible person, I know… But I'll assume you would like me to continue, and I can't if I've gotta write that in. So. I cheat.

Also, personal little plug: You all should go and watch WakeUpAmerica89's videos on Youtube. As a personal favor to me. : )

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><p>Sam looked up at his father, as John quietly entered the room.<p>

"All done?"

John nodded. "Yup. Bobby's gonna take him to Missouri for a while. Kid said he'll call once he's across state lines."

There was silence in the room for a few minutes, before Sam timidly spoke.

"Dad… is Dean… Is Dean gonna die?"

"No!" John's harsh voice shocked even himself, and he forced himself to moderate his tone. "No, he's not gonna die, Samuel. He's… He's gonna get better. He's gonna get through this, and everything's gonna be fine. I promise, alright?"

Sam nodded unsurely. "He's… I don't remember him. I mean, I guess I thought… I thought when I saw him again… I would know it was him. Like… Like a bond or repressed memories, or something. But I didn't. If I didn't know it was him… I could walk by him anywhere, and not even know my own brother," Sam said quietly. "Does that make me a bad person?"

John sighed as he kneeled in front of his youngest son. "No, Samuel. It doesn't. You were real young back then. I wouldn't expect you to remember. And Dean's grown up a lot. Hell… to be honest, Sam… I didn't recognize him either," John said softly.

"Hey! Wake up!"

Dean shook his head slowly, before sitting up.

"That's it, sleepy head, rise and shine!"

Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed, glancing around the room. His eyes went wide when he saw who was in the room with him.

"Dad? Sam? Dad!" Dean yelled, running to his father, and giving the sleeping man a hug. "Dad…?"

"Can't hear you, kid," Came the voice that had woken him in the first place. Dean glanced over by the door, and seen a tall, scraggly looking man standing there.

"What do you mean he can't hear me? What the hell is goin' on?" Dean demanded angrily, stomping over to the man. "Who the hell are you?"

The man chuckled under his breath, as he folded his arms around his chest. "I'm Zachary Hudson. Private 1st class, United States Marine Corp," He said sharply, snapping off a salute. "As for what's goin' on…" He pointed with his chin behind Dean.

Slowly –cautiously –Dean glanced behind him.

And promptly let out a yelp.

"Holy shit!" He cussed, looking back at Zachary. "What the hell is goin' on? Why am I over there?"

"You're dyin', kiddo. Gettin' ready to 'cross over'," The older man said, wiggling his fingers in mock horror. "Body can't hold your soul anymore."

"Wh… Dying?" Dean asked hoarsely, looking closer at himself lying on the bed. He did look pretty bad, he had to admit. Hell, he looked on death's door if he was being honest with himself. "What the hell happened?"

"Well, I'm no doctor, but I'd say somebody beat the hell outta you. Personal opinion." Zachary peered closer, before shrugging. "I'd say probably with a baseball bat."

Dean turned around, to look at his father and little brother again. "Are they… Are they really here? Is that really my dad and Sammy?"

"Yuppers. Been here a few days now. Oh, they got your friend Shawn out by the way. In case you're wondering," Zach said off-handedly.

"Shawn…?"

"Oh yeah, he was here too."

"Who the hell are you?"

"I told you, Zachary –"

"No, I mean… how can you see me?" Dean asked, staring at Sammy. "How come you can, and they can't?"

"They're still alive. I'm not."

"What?"

Zach grinned. "Really? You couldn't figure that out? I'm a ghost, man. Like… Boo!" He laughed manically.

"A… a ghost?"

"Indeed. Died during the Gulf War. Was doin' great when they shipped me state side… Other than the subdural hematoma they missed. Spent two days with my wife and son, and then, BAM! Presto dead-o."

"So… I'm dead?"

Zach sighed impatiently. "No, you're not dead! Do you not see all the machines still moving? You're dying, but you ain't quite there yet."

"If I'm not dead, how the hell am I here then?" Dean asked huffily, pushing past the ghost out into the hallway, glancing around. "And where the hell is 'here'?"

"Geez, kid, you ain't too bright, are you? You're crossing over. Dying, not dead. But close enough to dead that your soul escaped your body. And 'here' is St. Anthony's."


End file.
